


God Bless The Child

by thisonegoes



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Afterlife, Angst, Death of a loved one, Imaginary Friends, Long-Term Relationship(s), M/M, Sad Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-28 10:54:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2729804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisonegoes/pseuds/thisonegoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry's eyelids flutter, but he doesn't open them yet. He pretends he's in their bed, waking up from a good night's sleep, with fingers in his hair. A voice to lull him into the land of the living.</p>
            </blockquote>





	God Bless The Child

 

***

 

If Harry eases himself into the day, at a certain point, it's mostly muscle memory.  
  
Each day, it's not his brain leading him from moment to moment, but instead his feet, sending a message to his calves, which help his knees bend, propelling him forward, swift and without a thought. Harry supposes it's like the order in which you shower, how some people start from the top of their head to the tips of their toes, and others do it backwards. His mum washes her face first. Gemma actually washes her hands before anything else, which Harry always thought was strange. But once the order is set, for any given person, it's mindless. Seamless. Robotic.  
  
It's like brushing his teeth: left side, right side, molars, front teeth, bottom teeth. Tongue. His hand moves of its own accord. No thought given.  
  
It's like paying the bills, watering the plants above the sink, opening the window to let some air in, crawling back under thin sheets for a nap, lighting candles for the shadows, stirring his tea counter clockwise. No thought given.  
  
It's like how he wipes his face with the back of his hand, before turning off the light each night, without ever remembering crying in the first place.  
  
It's like breathing.  
  
Harry's feet, and calves, and knees, and legs, they all seamlessly work together now. They send the right signals, which is a lucky thing, when his brain fogs over and he can't see straight. They keep him alive, keep him moving when his head wants to keep him still. They even lead him down the road near their flat every afternoon before dusk, across the brick pavement, to the shop on the corner.  
  
Today it's a Thursday. Dahlia day.  
  
It's that muscle memory that has him paying at the shop, no smile to be seen, tugging at his scarf with one hand as the wind smacks him across the cheek. Whenever he gets closer to the gate, something about the angle of the buildings around it, distorts the wind, creates some sort of vortex. It always feels windier than it actually is, when he crosses the threshold, a high pitched note screaming after him through the fence. The petals of the flowers always become precariously windswept, so Harry's arms send the signal to hold the bundle closer to his chest. No thought given.  
  
As he gets closer, as the clouds shift slightly, Harry feels the chime notes dipping through the air, like they're being held down by a piano pedal. His parents put up a wind chime some time ago, something his youngest sister found, on a strong branch of the tree high above the ground. Something simple and clear, the tubes ring just right, and it always reminds Harry of his nan's porch. She said the birds liked the sound of it, wind chimes, something to give them a song mid flight.  
  
If Harry could still remember, if his brain still worked, maybe he'd set a reminder in his phone, or write himself a note, to call her. To call anyone.  
  
Harry never lets the flowers wilt, never leaves them for days on end, never lets them decompose or blow away or fade. He'd never let that sacred ground be desecrated with any more death or destruction than it already has, like the other plots near the tree. If Harry could care about anyone else, if his brain still worked, maybe he'd feel sorry for those people six feet under, for their families who can't keep up with the flowers beneath their stones.  
  
But he doesn't have the capacity anymore, to fill his heart with anything other than one person, one thought, over and over, so Harry just quickly replaces yesterday's lilies with today's dahlias. Out with the old, in with the new, a quick swap from white to a lighter shade of orange than Harry's seen in recent weeks, something the shop must be getting from some place new. They look nice, he decides, nodding, as his feet, and calves, and knees, and legs, all seamlessly work together to get him on the ground. His hood and scarf always make a nice pillow like this, each afternoon, the smell of fresh flowers clinging to him.  
  
Harry listens to the wind chime, the bird song nan always said to appreciate, and crosses his cold fingers across his chest. Closes his eyes.  
  
 _Any minute now._  
  
Harry's face doesn't know how to smile these days, but it can still be serene, every afternoon. Quiet and still, relaxed and calm.  
  
"I like the orange," he says like a whisper and a song and an exhale. "The white was too stark."  
  
Harry's lungs start to work again, like they do every day when he hears his voice. His lungs inhale and exhale like they never do anymore when he's alone in their flat. His eyelids flutter, but he doesn't open them yet. He pretends he's in their bed, waking up from a good night's sleep, with fingers in his hair. A voice to lull him into the land of the living.  
  
"White is classic," Harry exhales, lips twitching. "I like classic."  
  
"You sure do, babe," he laughs, the sound swirling with the chime.  
  
Maybe they had strong tea that morning, glasses perched on their noses as they read the paper and sorted the post. Harry exhales again, tries to taste the Yorkshire, before the vision shifts again. Then he pretends they're in their car, the one they saved up for together, with their fingers brushing near the radio. Maybe they just bickered about a radio station, maybe he won, maybe he didn't. Then they're in their bathtub, pruning too quickly in the steamy bathroom, laughing about something Anthony said at dinner. Harry's got more fingers in his hair, tugging slightly, lips on his neck, toes brushing against his ankles under the bubbles.  
  
"Where are we today?" he asks, knowing Harry better than he knows himself.  
  
"We're everywhere," Harry whispers, eyes still closed.  
  
"In the bath?"  
  
Harry can hear the laugh in his voice, the affection and fondness always saved special for Harry. So he finally opens his eyes, the overcast day coming back into view, through the branches above him. He slowly turns his head, to see him laying next to him in the grass, head perched on his hand, smiling.  
  
Harry's not sure why, why he's always in that simple white tshirt and the black jeans with rips up the thighs, something he must've worn a million times two summers ago. Hair shorter than it had been for at least six months, spiked at the top, brushing his ears only slightly. He doesn't even have the tattoo on his hand, the one to join up with the wrist ink he showed Harry about eight times on about eight different pieces of paper, to make sure he got it right.  
  
He looks the same every day, never changing, never different. The same, beautiful of course, with bright eyes and pink lips. He's never angry or annoyed, never tells Harry off for forgetting the milk, always smiles when Harry's voice slows down like it tends to. He's never upset about their circumstances, always laughing like he's just heard a new joke, fingers running through the hair on his chin. Happy.  
  
Harry always needs a few minutes to stare, to soak it in. The smile, the dip of his waist, the knocking of his boots, the smooth fingernails, the freckle near his nose. It all seems so much brighter somehow, magnified perhaps. And even though Harry knew every day for the six years they had together, how lucky he was, even held his hands together and prayed about it a few times, to say thank you for him, it's like it's the first time, every time, when he stares like this.  
  
It's not always clear to Harry, or he must not recognize it, that he cries every time, but he does.  
  
"Babe," he leans closer, close enough to touch, "it's alright."  
  
Harry nods, tries to wipe his face.  
  
"I wish I could give you a coat," Harry supplies, for lack of a better thing to say, as his eyes drift up and down his bare arms.  
  
"Lucky for you, I'm never cold," he winks at Harry.  
  
"Still."  
  
"I know, babe."  
  
Harry sniffles, feels a cold coming on.  
  
Sometimes when Harry got sick, when he'd allow himself to be taken care of, they'd do it just like this: tucked together in bed, just talking, to distract him from the phlegm in his nose, the cough in his lungs, the ache in his ears. Harry would have fluids, cold medicine, and tissues strewn across their bed, on the table, near the TV, for days, and it should've made every human being on the block run for the hills. But he stayed. He always stayed. He'd let Harry whine and cry about being "just fine, thank you," until Harry finally gave up to stumble back into bed, with hands around his wrists.  
  
Maybe he's thinking about it too, because he pouts at Harry, sticks his lip out to get a laugh.  
  
Harry indulges him, the sound foreign in his mouth.  
  
"How have you been?" Harry wonders, his brain needing to hear it out loud, the part of his brain that must create this entire scenario day after day.  
  
"I'm good," he smiles warmly. "I'm so good, Haz. You don't need to worry about me, yeah?"  
  
Harry nods.  
  
"I don't want you to ever wonder if I'm happy, or safe, or free. I'm all those things," he whispers, voice softening, fading.  
  
 _Any minute now._  
  
"Don't go yet," Harry scrambles, wipes his face again, turning his entire body on his side.  
  
"I'm here."  
  
"Me too."  
  
Harry tries to close his eyes, to bring back a memory to hold on to, to say out loud where they are. They're in their bed. Harry has a hot mouth ghosting down his neck, near his clavicle, down his chest. There are palms on his hips, a delicious arch to his back, a sturdy body on top of him. Fingers in his hair. His name being repeated in his ear, fingers and knuckles pulling him apart first, splitting him open like a Cadbury egg. Whispers about the first time they saw each other, how beautiful he thought Harry was, the dirty things he thought about when he was at the office. It's something Harry always loved during those heated moments, a husky voice against his ear.  
  
"I always felt like such a knob," he says to Harry in a hushed voice, floating away, "whenever I talked in bed."  
  
Harry's breath catches in his throat, face wet all over again. He's flipped them, he's on top, holding their hands against the mattress, splitting further and further, toes curling.  
  
"But I always did it for you, right babe?"  
  
"You did everything for me," Harry wrenches his eyes open again, to stare into the fading brown irises next to him.  
  
"Went both ways," he chuckles, both of them remembering Harry's sweet mouth, the things he could do.  
  
Harry wants to keep him here, for hours and hours, but it won't last much longer. They don't have time, until they do it all over again tomorrow, and if it weren't a puff of smoke in front of him, Harry would reach out and try to touch. But it ends faster when he tries, his fingers touch nothing, and it's a different kind of pain, trying to put yourself back together after the sensation.  
  
Harry sees it, sees the way he blinks slowly, drifting. Suddenly Harry decides not to be anywhere in the past, places they visited as a pair, things they have pictures of.  
  
"Let's go somewhere we've never been," Harry crumbles slightly, a crack forming in his already-thin veneer, another tear falling.  
  
"Oh babe," he sighs, like he's about to hear a bedtime story, shutting his eyes. "Let's do that."  
  
Harry reaches out, only slightly, to lay his hand near his hand in the grass. The sun is starting to set, it's getting too cold.  
  
They're in a church, somewhere bright and beautiful, with random cousins in black suits and frilly dresses, music playing. Harry's mum is there with a tissue in each hand, smiling at him every time they catch each others' eyes. They hold hands in front of their families. They laugh about Harry getting the wrong size ring on accident. They're dancing, on a dance floor covered in string lights, their song, that one song Harry couldn't remember the name of for so long, the one they got tattooed eventually on their ribs. Champagne and toasts, Doniya embarrassing them both, Danny showing a slide show of their dumbest childhood photos. Laughing into each others' necks. Kissing again. Driving away with empty bean cans trailing behind them, their idiot friends laughing in the rear view.  
  
They're on a beach. Weightless and giddy. Holding tight, Harry's chin on his shoulder. They're on airplanes going to new places, in each of their family's living rooms, holding presents and glasses of wine and plates with cake and bottles to feed babies.  
  
They're old and grey.  
  
They're everywhere.  
  
"S'nice," he whispers, too quiet now.  
  
He has to leave.  
  
"Zayn Malik," Harry says his name into the air around them, to savor the taste on his tongue again, "I love you."  
  
"I love you too," he smiles at Harry, drifting.  
  
Harry closes his eyes, choosing not to watch him leave, like he did yesterday and the day before. It's easier when he doesn't have to watch him go. Or at least, that's the lie he tells himself, otherwise he'd never get up from that frigid ground next to the slate grey stone. It's easier to be alone when you take a few minutes to actually _be_ alone, physically on top of the person who left you that way, by no fault of their own.  
  
His brain disengages in those moments, when he lays still, with his eyelids fluttering. It all slowly seeps away, leaves him be, let's him go. Harry's brain, thankfully, luckily, waits to supply the memories until the next day, when he walks under the gate with new flowers. He has each new day with him, with their memories, Harry supposes, even if it's his own imagination, something his poor psyche has come up with to cope. Something to keep him from staying in bed.  
  
It's muscle memory that gets him up, discards the old flowers in the bin near the gate, pulls the scarf against his chapped lips.  
  
It's his feet, and calves, and knees, and legs, that all seamlessly work together to get him back to their flat. They lead him into the kitchen to make tea, into the toilet to scrub his fingernails, into bed under thin sheets. It's his hands that push his phone full of pictures further under his pillow, so he won't be tempted to look at them tonight.  
  
He wipes his face with the back of his hand, before turning off the light, without ever remembering if he stopped crying in the first place.  
  
He breathes.

 

***

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [Twitter](http://twitter.com/this_onegoes/)   
>  [Tumblr](http://this-onegoes.tumblr.com/)


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